


Ashes

by IncompleteSentanc (Erava)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Deaths, Game of Thrones Is It's Own Warning, Gen, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 05:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12857511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erava/pseuds/IncompleteSentanc
Summary: She dies stupid.And then, somehow, she wakes up.She's not sure what she did to deserve waking up in a world of hell, but she definitely regrets it.





	1. Chapter 1

She dies stupid.

There’s no way around that - she dies, and it’s of her own stupidity.

One minute she had been laughing at something her friend had said, the next she was on the ground bleeding to death.

A car hit her. The headlights blinding her. 

She had stepped off the sidewalk without looking, her attention on her friends and her back to the road. She fell drunkenly, and the last thing she remembers is the luminescent bar sign overhead and blinding headlights coming at her.

And then, somehow, she wakes up.

 

* * *

 

 

Her name is Lyarra Stark.

She’s two years old when she wakes up with the mind of a twenty-three year old. Two years, barely able to walk and talk and communicate.

But she sees enough, hears enough, to know that she’s a Stark and somehow, inexplicably, in the world of a Song of Ice and Fire.

Or the world of Game of Thrones.

She’s not entirely sure yet.

Her name is Lyarra Stark, first daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, younger sister to Robb Stark, and older sister to Sansa Stark.

She’s Lyarra Stark, and the world is not her own, and that fills her with more terror than she can express.

Anxiety claws at her the longer time goes on, the more of the world she sees. This world is real, she cannot deny that, as she delicately eats lemon cakes and helps a young Sansa mash one of her own into her mouth.

“Don’t teach her such awful manners.” Catelyn scolds and Lyarra wilts, curling in on herself as her anxiety spikes.

This is her home now, and it’s destined to  _ burn. _

 

* * *

 

 

She’s three when she wakes up sobbing from a nightmare - or more specifically, sobbing from a memory of this horrible place. Anxiety has her clinging tightly to Ned, who rubs soothing circles on her back. She can barely even cry, she just shakes.

_ This is hell, _ she thinks, though she’s not sure what she did to deserve it. She’d always been kind. She gave money to every homeless person she saw, and if not money, then food and clean water. She once even took home a young one and let him use her shower before an interview for a job!

She helped as much as she could, gave as much as she dared, and mourned when she couldn’t afford to help as much as she wanted. 

She was a  _ good person, _ but for some reason, God or gods had sent her to this hellish world to live out her afterlife.

The bed sinks behind her, a gentle weight, and hands caress her dark brown hair gently. “What do we do, Ned?” Catelyn asks quietly, petting her hair. She trembles, clutching her ‘father’ even tighter.

They aren’t her family. They  _ aren’t, _ and half a year in this place hasn’t changed that. Her real mother was dead. Her real father was alive, and loved her, and would no doubt be absolutely crushed by her death. Her  _ real brother _ would be devastated as well, and probably drinking himself into an early grave, just like she stupidly had.

Their stupidity had always resonated off one another, and when they were together, bad things  _ always _ happened.

But now he’d be alone. With a father helpless to ease his grief.

And now,  _ now, _ she has two strangers cradling her and trying to stop her terrified tears.

Two strangers destined to die, a brother destined to die, a sister destined to be tortured-

A thought hits her and for a moment, she goes still.

Then the shaking comes back even worse.

Because Sansa is no longer the eldest daughter. 

_ She is. _

And that meant  _ Joffrey. _

 

* * *

 

“What do we do, Ned?” Catelyn asks when Lyarra’s exhausted herself so much that she barely shakes at all anymore. “It’s getting worse. These fits…”

“The maester says all is well.” Ned says, with a hint of uncertainty. His arms are strong around her body, holding her close, and Catelyn has been petting her hair for at  _ least _ an hour now. “Don’t look at me like that, Cat.” He says tiredly. “We can do no more than what the maester suggests.”

“I’m going to speak to him in the morning.” Catelyn says fiercely. “He needs to take this more seriously. This can’t keep happening, people will talk. They’ll say she’s unwell, she’s unstable.”

“She’s neither.” Ned snaps back, quiet but no less harsh. Catelyn falls silent and Ned breathes deep against Lyarra’s small body. “We will speak to the maester. Surely he has something to offer us.” He says with quiet confidence.

“Ned…” Catelyn says softly, trailing off helplessly. “She’s our daughter.”

“She is. We will take care of her, Cat. You’ll see.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Fear, it sounds like.” Maester Luwin says with a deep frown. Lyarra feigns sleep, listening to her ‘parents’ speak to him. “A deeply traumatic fear.”

“Nothing has happened to her.” Ned protests. “She’s been kept safe. We’ve ensured that. She’s suffered no traumas.”

“Sometimes these things happen without reason. Sometimes babes are born with deep trauma already.” Luwin hums, his chains clinking in the quiet room. “It is usually outgrown with time.”

“How much time?” Catelyn asks, anxiously gripping her husband’s arm.

“Years. Her coming of age will overcome these fears, almost certainly… there is a good possibility of her overcoming them far sooner, of course, but one can only guess.” Luwin says heavily. “Do not coddle her. Force her to face her fears, and she will overcome them faster.”

“But what fears could she possibly have?” Catelyn asks, sounding mystified.

_ Only the horrible death of everyone I’m meant to love and the future torture of myself and others. _ She thinks wryly, gripping her pillow a little bit tighter.

“We will find the root of the problem. Do not worry so.” Ned says soothingly. Catelyn makes a soft, irritated sound, but falls silent.

“For now, I will give you this. Essence of Nightshade, to help her sleep at night. Only give her a single drop, or the consequences will be dire.”

_ I might just drink the whole bottle, then. _ Lyarra thinks grimly.  _ Then I’ll be safe from this horrible world. _

“Thank you, Maester Luwin.” Ned says with polite dismissal.

“Yes, of course. If you need anything else, you need only ask.” The chains clink loudly, and then he shuffles away.

“Let’s go, Catelyn. Let her rest easy for once.” Ned says gently.

“Ned…” She hears Catelyn start, but whatever she says is cut off by the door closing. 

Lyarra opens her eyes and stares into the darkness, wondering how in the  _ hell _ she’s going to survive this world.

 

* * *

 

Lyarra sits and holds a mirror close, staring at herself. In her peripheral she can see Theon, Robb, and Jon all practicing with Ser Rodrick in the training yard. They’re barely older than her, but apparently, they start them young in this place.

Not that she’s paying much attention. No, her attention is on her own face. She has a rounded, plump face - of course she does, she’s only three. Dark brown hair frames her face in light, fluffy ringlets that look disconcertingly similar to Jon’s. Her eyes are a dark grey, with just a hint of blue to them.

Again, eerily like Jon’s.

_ Tell me I’m not also a Targaryen, _ she thinks, then rolls her eyes at herself. Of course she isn’t. Catelyn had carried her herself, and there was absolutely no denying her father is Ned. It’s just that she and Jon are both blessed with their northern roots.

“Aren’t you cold, little wolf?” 

Lyarra lowers her mirror and looks up at her ‘father’. She’s unable to help herself, playfully making a snapping of her jaws. He grins at her. 

“Little wolf indeed. One day, you will inspire terror, my daughter.”

Her eyes glint at that but she says nothing, amusement pulling at her lips.  _ Terror? I doubt it.  _

She was much too nice for that.

Ned sits beside her, stretching out his arm to wrap his heavy cloak around her, tucking her into his side. She goes compliantly, frowning down at the training grounds. “What are you thinking about, my little wolf?” Ned inquires.

Lyarra frowns, silent for several long moments.

Her eyes narrow, watching them spar. “There should be a fourth.” She says eventually.

Ned blinks down at her in confusion.

“Robb spars with Theon. No one is there to spar with Jon.”

Understanding dawns and he looks back out at the arena, frowning. “Ser Rodrick practices with him.” But there’s a hint of displeasure in his tone. No doubt because Rodrick is mercilessly beating Jon into the dirt. Not necessarily intending to hurt him, but not very delicate in his training.

“He should have a sparring partner.”

Ned looks back down at her, amused now. “And who should fill that role, my little wolf? You?”

_ “Yes.” _ She sa ys fiercely, before the implication fully hits her. She stares at the training even more intently, eyes narrowing. Being able to fight…

...That had promise.

“Yes, father.” She says firmly. “I would like to learn to fight.”

To defend herself. To defend others.

To take Joffrey’s head for her own and hang it upon the rafters with a smile. 

To prevent the deaths of her new family, in this horrible,  _ horrible _ new world.

“Lyarra.” Ned says slowly and she looks up at him in fierce determination. The idea has taken root, and now there is nothing that will stop her.

Ned stares at her and she stares back.

Something haunted and pained flickers across his face, and then he smiles a tired, wan little smile. “Then learn to fight you will.”

Lyarra’s eyes glimmer.

Perhaps she’ll survive this world after all.


	2. Chapter 2

She learns to play the harp at the same time she learns to wield a sword. A concession to ease Catelyn’s fury over the unladylike display.

Catelyn had raged for days, until Lyarra overheard what finally convinced the woman.

“She’s just like Lyanna, Cat. She’s just like her.” Ned had said, heartbroken, and even Catelyn had to stop at that.

Lyarra leans to play the harp and she learns to wield a sword. Never once does she impress her teacher, and never once does she beat Jon in a duel.

Of course she doesn’t. She’s four and he’s five by the time they first duel, and he kicks her into the dirt with ease.

He also helps her to her feet, spewing apologies, while Catelyn glares daggers at him from the balcony. Lyarra just grins at him, readying her practice sword, and he smiles uncertainly back.

It helps to have something to focus on - some idea that she might actually survive in this ridiculously brutal world. Something to occupy her mind and distract her from her probable impending doom. 

Then she’s five, and Catelyn Stark brings another child into the world.

Tiny Arya Stark, pitifully small and pink, but with pale blue eyes that she knows will turn grey over time, and dark brown hair piled on her head. 

“Arya.” Lyarra echoes the name, gazing down at the newest Stark family member. She howled up a storm after her birth, only the first hint of her rebellious nature.

Though, perhaps with Lyarra’s changes, she won’t  _ have _ to be so rebellious. After all, if Lyarra’s allowed to learn to fight, what’s stopping Arya?

She reaches down, offering a finger, and Arya’s little fist wraps around it tightly even as she sleeps. “She already has the grip of a swordsman.” She says, because Catelyn’s long fallen asleep and with so much milk of the poppy in her, there’s no way she’ll wake up to yell at her.

Still, Ned grins at her. “Don’t let your mother hear that.”

“I don’t think she’ll be able to stop her.” Lyarra contradicts a bit shyly, smiling down at the tiny form. She didn’t come into this body until she was already two, so she hadn’t seen Sansa as a babe. This is the closest she’s ever been to a newborn. “She’s tiny, but she’s got the blood of a wolf.” She says confidently.

“So do you.” Ned says softly, petting her hair as she tenderly watches Arya. Robb waits impatiently behind her so she reluctantly steps away, pulling her finger from Arya’s tiny fist. She move around Robb so he can step closer, and finds Jon observing from the doorway. 

“She looks just like us.” She tells Jon proudly, ignoring the awkward tenseness that accompanies that statement. “The blood of the wolf.”

Jon smiles awkwardly, a little uncomfortable, but nods.

“Yeah. The blood of the wolf.”

Lyarra grins a grin that’s full of teeth. “Winter is coming.”

She’s starting to think she might just survive it.

Now it’s a question of her siblings.

* * *

 

 

Little Bran is born a year later, and in the same week, Lyarra finally,  _ finally _ beats someone in a duel.

It’s not Jon. Jon takes to a sword like a fish to water, and Lyarra does too, but she started years later than he had and can’t possibly catch up.

No, it’s  _ Robb _ she dumps into the dirt, beaming ecstatically as she immediately helps him to his feet. He grins back, and they both falter when they hear clapping from up above. Both turn their heads and there stands Ned, overlooking the training grounds in the same place she had once announced her desire to learn to fight.

He stops clapping after a while and Robb turns his attention back to her, clapping her on the shoulder. “Good fight, sister.”

“Feeling embarrassed, Robb?” Theon crows from across the yard, only to immediately taste dirt as Jon knocks him on his ass.

Lyarra can’t help it. She bursts out laughing, and after a moment, Jon and Robb join in.

Jon helps Theon to his feet, and as annoyed as the boy looks, he can’t help but grin ruefully. “Okay, I deserved that one.” He concedes, and Lyarra laughs a little bit harder.

 

* * *

 

 

She’s ten when her next, and final, sibling is born.

Rickon Stark, five years younger than Bran, and even cuter than Arya had been at birth.

She’s ten, Sansa’s eight, Arya’s six, and Bran is five. 

And already, they’re both terrors. Arya undeniably has the blood of the wolf, stronger than Lyarra does, though she looks up to her older sister for teaching her to swordfight. Under Ser Rodrick’s supervision, of course. 

Sansa, on the other hand, looks utterly disgusted by them when they return from training. If they, gods forbid, have mud on their boots, she won’t even speak to them.

Lyarra finds it amusing, but also painful - because she can remember a time when Sansa would grow to care little and less for messiness.

A time she dearly hopes she can prevent.

Even if it means taking Ramsay Snow’s head for herself, before he can even attempt to do the things he’d done.  _ No one,  _ Lyarra vows fiercely as she looks at tiny little Rickon,  _ will ever touch my family. _

Even if it means getting her hands dirty.

 

* * *

 

She’s twelve when she has her first moon’s blood (which is a  _ disgusting _ affair in a time and world like this), but she’s thirteen before her mother pulls her aside and sits her down. “Lyarra,” She begins heavily, stroking her waist-length brown hair. “Today your father and I received a request. The King would have you marry his eldest son, Joffrey.” Lyarra stiffens, her heart instantly racing in her chest, and looks at her mother with wide eyes. Distantly, she hopes she looks more surprised than terrified. 

“He’s the heir to the throne, Lyarra. You are my eldest daughter. I could not  _ dream _ of a better marriage for you - but you have final say in this matter.” Catelyn adds firmly. “I will not sell you away like cattle. You must want this, or I will refuse the offer and perhaps offer Sansa instead.”

Her heart races, skipping a beat at that, and for a moment, Lyarra can’t help but shudder. And then she shudders again and again, fear having her breath catch in her throat. “Lyarra?” Catelyn asks gently, uneasy, and she squeezes her eyes tightly shut.

_ I’m to marry  _ **_Joffrey._ ** _ Joffrey  _ **_bloody_ ** _ Baratheon. _ She thinks, a bit hysterically. Catelyn says something and her hand vanishes, footsteps sweeping away.

_ He’ll torture me. He’ll torment me. He’ll beat me and might even rape me, since my moon’s blood has already started. They’ll be expecting me to get  _ **_pregnant,_ ** _ off of that bastard, inbred scum. _

“Lyarra.” Her father’s voice, heavy arms pulling her hard and pressing her to his chest. “Breathe with me, dear. And open your mouth.” 

Lyarra opens her eyes and sees Catelyn hover over with a small, teaspoon at the ready. She opens her mouth and lets the woman pour the bitter fluid in. Then her mother sits at her other side, stroking her hair in soothing waves.

_ Joffrey  _ **_fucking_ ** _ Baratheon,  _ Lyarra thinks hysterically.

She’d known this day would come. She’d  _ known, _ and still it leaves her trembling like a leaf in her father’s arms.

_ I don’t want this. _

_ I don’t want this. _

Her head swims and her breathing slows. She goes limp against her father, the occasional shudder rushing through her. 

_ I don’t want this, _ she thinks, but now, another thought follows.

Her resolve hardens, her jaw locking, and her eyes narrow into dangerous glints.

_ I don’t want this, but I won’t let him do this to Sansa. _

 

* * *

 

She finds her father in his office the next morning. He pauses immediately at seeing her, taking her in with a confused look. Her long hair is braided over her shoulder, and she wears a tan tunic, dark brown leathers, and tightly bound fur boots. 

“I’ll marry the prince. How long before I must go to King’s Landing?” She asks brusquely.

Ned blinks at her, looking almost stricken by her appearance before he focuses on her face. “It’ll be two months before the King and his entourage arrive in Winterfell. Another month after that, they’ll be leaving for King’s Landing.”

She nods sharply. “I’ll return soon enough.” She assures him confidently.

He blinks at her. “Return? Where are you going?”

“To the stables. I plan on taking Saela for a ride.” Saela, her father’s gift for her tenth nameday. 

“I see. Take at least two guards with you.”

“I’ll see you soon, father.” She smiles warmly at him.

When she takes off from the stables, no one is fast enough to stop her.

She has things to do.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyarra's a busy bee :>


	3. Chapter 3

Ned sends men after her immediately. It comes as no surprise - she was prepared for that, and dressed accordingly. She rubbed mud on her horse to make him less recognizable and wore a heavy, hooded cloak to hide her hair and face.

And so she travels, with one duty in mind.

It’s a month later that Ned gets a missive alerting him to the murder of Roose Bolton’s bastard heir.

 

* * *

 

 

It hadn’t been an easy task. Ramsay kept his girls close - two of them - and Lyarra had never practiced archery to make isolating him easier. She kills the dark haired female archer first. She lies in wait, lunges from the bushes, and the girl is dead before anyone can react. Only when her body hits the ground does Ramsay and the remaining girl whip around.

Ramsay fights. The girl fights, too, and it’s problematic - because she remembers this girl, and the way she’d died after helping him torment Theon. She wasn’t  _ innocent, _ but Lyarra remembers her pleas for mercy, and the horrible way she’d died.

It makes her hesitate, which makes it easier for Ramsay to fight back.

She kills them both, in the end. A sword through the girl’s gut, and after a fierce fight, a sharp rock to Ramsay’s head. 

The man had not gone down easy. She was bloody and battered by the end of it, a vicious slice through her palm to stop his knife from cutting her throat, and countless bruises from his punches and kicks.

She’s never felt so terrible in her life, cherished as she’d been in both her lives.

She slits his throat, just to be sure, and then slits the girl’s, too.

This, she knows, will haunt her forever. 

Because the girl looks at her with crying eyes, every breath strangled and harsh, hands desperately trying to stifle the bleeding from her gut. The smell is horrible, but the girl’s fear…

Lyarra cuts the girl’s throat and turns away, climbing painfully onto her horse and riding away. 

 

* * *

 

 

She washes away as much of the blood as she can, then burns whatever she can’t get it out of. She tries to remember the names of the girls she’d just slaughtered. The brunette, Ramsay in female form, had a name that she’s fairly sure started with an ‘m’. But the blonde’s name, she has no recollection of.

That night, she sits and looks at her hands, one carefully wrapped to keep the blood away from her clothes, and wonders at what she had just done.

She’d  _ murdered. _

With her own two hands. She had just murdered three people.

They might have deserved it. They might not. Ramsay and the girls were terrible people, but for all she knows, they haven’t done anything to deserve  _ death _ yet. 

And she’d killed them anyways.

Lyarra stares at her hands, blinks painfully dry eyes, and doesn’t sleep a wink.

_ He’ll never touch you now, Sansa. _

_ He’ll never touch any of us. _

 

* * *

 

She returns to Winterfell two weeks after.

Robb is the first to see her, scooping her up and swinging her around in a wild hug. “You mad girl! What were you thinking, taking off like that? We thought you were dead! Mother cried for  _ weeks. _ Even father was distraught.”

He lectures her all the way to the dining hall, where she finds the rest of her family waiting. 

Catelyn drops her fork, lurching to her feet with a cry. 

Sansa and Bran stare at her in stunned shock.

Arya  _ grins _ at her, wild and wicked, with the promise of demands for stories in her eyes.

And Ned glares at her with more anger than she’s ever seen on his face.

 

* * *

 

“You will  _ never _ do that again.” Ned tells her, pacing furiously in her bedchambers. “You will not leave this room until the King arrives. Two weeks, Lyanna, or I’ll-” He trails off, pausing for a second, and looks pained at his slip up.

Lyarra stares at him and he glares at the floor before turning it to her. He folds his arms across his chest and  _ glares _ at her. “Do you  _ understand _ why I’m so angry with you, Lyarra?”

“Because you were afraid for me.” She says slowly and uncertainly.

“Yes. And no.” Ned reaches up, pinching the bridge of his nose, and takes several deep breaths before folding his arms and glaring at her again. “Your aunt Lyanna would take off for weeks at a time on a regular basis. Do you know what was different about that and this?” He demands sharply.

“No.” Lyarra says meekly.

“She  _ told us _ she was going. She told us  _ where _ she was going. And most importantly,” He adds, voice rising. “She did  _ not _ go alone! She always,  _ always _ took one of us with her. Her siblings, which you have no shortage of. If you  _ ever _ do this again,” his voice becomes dangerously soft, “you  _ will _ take Robb or Jon, or you will never leave Winterfell or King’s Landing again.”

Lyarra nods quickly and Ned stares down at her for a long minute.

“No. Leaving. This. Room.” He instructs very, very firmly.

“Yes, father.” She says quietly.

The door slams shut behind him.

She leans back and splays out on her bed, kicking her legs out where they dangle over the edge.

_ All in all, _ she muses,  _ two weeks in my room is a pretty good deal for triple homicide. _

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m sorry you won’t be there.” Lyarra tells Jon on the first day of her freedom. The King is set to arrive at any moment, and Lyarra’s had two weeks to stew over how to react.

In the end, she settled for the same emotion that had driven her to murder.

_ “You’re a mother bear sometimes,” _ her brother - her  _ real  _ brother - had told her once.  _ “Ridiculously protective over your people.” _

_ “My people?”  _ She had asked, amused by the term.

_ “Your family, and the people you adopt into it.” _ Her brother had explained.

And he was right.

She was protective of her people, and over the last eleven years, the Starks had become  _ her people. _ Hers to protect and defend. Her baby sisters, her baby brothers, her big brothers who could protect themselves for the most part.

She’d had two weeks to sit on it, and in the end, it was easy to slip into the cold guise she’d adorned when she murdered Ramsay and his girls.

“It’ll probably be tediously boring anyways.” Jon says idly, drawing her from her thoughts.

She blinks for a moment, having completely lost track of the conversation, and tries to recall exactly what they were talking about. “...Huh?” She asks intelligently.

Jon looks at her in amusement. “You said you were sorry I can’t be with the greeting party.”

“Oh.” Lyarra says, brow furrowing. “Did I really? You’re right, it’s you that should be sorry for _me._ _I_ have to stand there and bleat to my _betrothed_ about how happy my life will be.” She rolls her eyes and Jon laughs.

“You never know, you might like him.” He points out and her smile never wavers, even as her insides freeze over.

_ I could never like him, _ she thinks, followed swiftly by,  _ I’ve already flowered. _

She looks to the side, eyes narrowing dangerously.

_ He’s going to be wed to me immediately.  _

_...And then he’s going to rape me. _

 

* * *

 

 

Her fate, Lyarra reflects as they sit around the feast, was sealed the moment she was born. Even before  _ she _ became Lyarra Stark, the babe had been doomed.

“That’s lovely, your grace,” She says with a warm smile to whatever Joffrey had been nattering on about. He looks smug by her response, so she supposes she got it right. 

Ned and Catelyn are across the table from her, Ned next to the King and Catelyn beside him. The rest of the children - sans Theon and Jon - are beside them in a line.

Lyarra sits apart from them, trapped between the woman destined to murder her father, and the boy destined to torture and rape her.

The King’s eyes dart to her almost constantly, a strange expression on his face. She can imagine what he’s thinking. She’s seen Lyanna’s statue in the crypts, and the resemblance is undeniable. 

“Gods, Ned, she looks just like her.” She can hear him say to her father.

“And acts just like her too.” Ned says fondly.

“Surely this talk can be saved for later? At a more appropriate time?” Cersei suggests in a gentle tone.

The King snorts, shooting her a glare. “Quiet, woman, the men are speaking.”

_ Charming. _ She thinks, then pauses for a second. “Charming.” She murmurs under her breath.

Cersei glances at her. Joffrey frowns. “Careful who you’re speaking about. That’s my father.”

“Of course, your grace.” Lyarra smiles warmly at him. “I can only hope I never make you speak to me that same way.” She says genially, soothing Joffrey’s ruffled feathers. She glances at Cersei to find the woman’s eyes narrowed, a wine glass raised to hide the rest of her face.

Lyarra looks away, down at her plate, and considers that a success.

Her life might be  _ slightly _ better if Cersei didn’t loathe her.

Then again, that was  _ highly _ unlikely.

Lyarra sips from her own wine, musing.

 

 


End file.
